


Insight

by PumpkinDoodles



Series: Taserbones Tumblr Prompts & Tiny (Adorkable) Fics [37]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor - Fandom
Genre: BAMF Darcy Lewis, F/M, Not Fluff, Post-HYDRA Reveal, She rescued herself, TripleAgent!Rumlow, Ugly Breakups, past Darcy/Brock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24821491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinDoodles/pseuds/PumpkinDoodles
Summary: “Have you ever been in love with somebody and they ditched you?” he asked Darcy. She nodded, studying his face. This was their third session. He was getting divorced.“Yes,” she told him. Simple. To the point. Honest, Darcy thought.  She thought it was important for her to be truthful with patients.“I mean, I feel blindsided. She just left. How do I respond to that?” her patient asked her. “It feels like everyone wants me to just be okay--and sometimes, I’m okay and then I’m not okay, you know?” he added, gesturing. Across the desk, Darcy smiled gently.“That’s completely normal,” Darcy told him. “Some days, you’ll feel fine, but then your feelings of anxiety and grief will come back. So will the anger. It’s a back and forth--it doesn’t necessarily go in a linear order. The important thing is that you reach out when you’re feeling loneliness, all right?”Darcy's made a new life for herself. She doesn't expect the ex who ruined her last one to come back from the dead.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow
Series: Taserbones Tumblr Prompts & Tiny (Adorkable) Fics [37]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1484168
Comments: 242
Kudos: 455





	1. Emotional Leverage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NevermoreBlack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevermoreBlack/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“Have you ever been in love with somebody and they ditched you?” he asked Darcy. She nodded, studying his face. This was their third session. He was getting divorced.

“Yes,” she told him. Simple. To the point. Honest, Darcy thought. She thought it was important for therapists to be honest with patients.

“I mean, I feel fucking blindsided. She just left. How do I respond to that?” her patient asked her. “It feels like everyone wants me to just be okay--and sometimes, I’m okay and then I’m not fucking okay, you know?” he added, gesturing. Across the desk, Darcy smiled gently.

“That’s completely normal,” Darcy told him. “Some days, you’ll feel fine, but then your feelings of anxiety and grief will come back. So will the anger. It’s a back and forth--it doesn’t necessarily go in a linear order. The important thing is that you reach out when you’re feeling loneliness, all right?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “I did try those positive distraction activities we talked about,” he said. 

“How’d they go?” Darcy asked. He laughed. 

“I fucking suck at hot yoga,” he said. “But I did like watching that baseball game.”

“Good,” Darcy said. 

* * *

“Hey,” Ian said, quickly kissing Darcy’s cheek when they spotted each other at the science gala. It was being held at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. His eyes slid down over her dark sheath. “New dress? You look wonderful," he said. Darcy saw him frequently, because she, Jane, and Thor shared a brownstone in Brooklyn. He sometimes came to run readings on the roof. "I lost Jane,” he added. 

“Oh no,” Darcy said dryly. Jane had a tendency to get swarmed at these things, especially if Thor was with her. Darcy and Ian were used to it. “Let’s get a drink,” she told him. “And yes, new dress. The hip pleats took me forever.” Her dress had a v-neck, a pleated wrap design around her waist, and three-quarter sleeves.

“Great work,” Ian said, clearly admiring her, as they made their way to the bar and snagged wine glasses. She smiled lightly. Darcy had taken up sewing in 2014, when her entire life fell apart. Again. Working out sewing patterns had soothed her frazzled nerves and been one of two things between her and a nervous breakdown. The other thing had been counseling. Six years later, she was adept at both--everyone complimented her wardrobe and her reputation as a kind, patient therapist. Only Jane, Ian, and Thor knew how close she’d skated to the abyss. Ian smiled at her as he raised his glass to his lips. Darcy let her eyes linger on his gentle face. She and Ian had a polite relationship now, a good relationship. She valued him. His honesty. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“I’m still wearing these,” he joked, looking down. He had on the same scuffed dress shoes he’d worn to his dissertation defense. 

“Oh, you’ve got to keep those. It’s tradition,” she said, glancing around. Darcy adjusted the delicate silver necklace at her throat, so the end of the chain--a long line ending in a spiky charm--was visible over her chest. The lariat was a present from Jane, a gift when she’d graduated from her masters’ program. She wore it when she was nervous. “See anyone else we know?” she asked Ian. She scanned the room looking for Avengers. Or anyone from DC. Jane had warned her that a SHIELD R&D team might be present. Maybe some others.

“No, no one yet,” Ian said. He peered down at his shoes again. “Maybe I should have them bronzed, like my mum did my baby shoes?”

“Great idea,” Darcy said, “you—” but then the words died in her throat when the crowd parted and she saw a familiar flash of red hair. The woman was moving through the sea of people, headed straight for them.

“Hello, Darcy,” Natasha Romanoff said, as Darcy’s stomach lurched a little at the cool, low voice. It brought back too many bad memories of those months in DC.

“Hi,” she replied. She did the default thing, taking a calming breath and pushing away the disturbing images that rose in her mind whenever she though of the Black Widow. _Buildings crashing into the Potomac, document leaks, a televised Congressional hearing, HYDRA. HYDRA. HYDRA._ “You remember Ian Boothby?” Darcy said. She indicated Ian.

”Jane’s colleague,” Romanoff said.

“I’m just the guy who helps Foster lug the equipment,” Ian said cheerfully.

“And you two are engaged?” Natasha said, with an innocent smile that was very clever indeed. Damn her, Darcy thought. Determined to ferret out information. 

“Well,” Darcy said. “Ian?” She kept her voice playful.

“We are very amicable friends these days,” Ian said.

“Yes,” Darcy said. “He still works with Jane, but I’ve moved in a different direction.”

“I heard that you are now a couples' therapist?” she offered. Darcy realized the engagement question was definitely a ruse.

“Something like that,” Darcy said casually. Her actual field of specialty was trauma. She'd interviewed other survivors of the Dark Elf incident in London for her thesis. Darcy smiled coolly at Romanoff, as someone from Jane’s previous lab came over to greet them.

“Actually, can I borrow Darcy for a moment?” Natasha asked, clearly seizing the opportunity. 

“Sure,” Darcy said, not waiting for Ian to speak.

They walked to a corner of the room. Darcy turned. “There’s something you want,” she said. She waited expectantly.

“Do you think so?” Natasha said.

“It wasn’t a question,” Darcy said.

“You have unique emotional leverage,” Natasha said. “And now you’re a therapist.”

“Over whom would I have leverage?” Darcy asked. Then she clarified. “That actually _is_ a question.” Did they want something with Thor? Jane?

“Rumlow,” Natasha said.

“Excuse me?” Darcy said. Everyone knew Crossbones had died in Nigeria several years ago. Fewer people knew that he and Darcy had been dating when the HYDRA Uprising happened--technically, just before. She’d been in love with him. She thought he was in love, too. Until he came home one evening for a prearranged date, tilted his head, and told her to “get the fuck out of my house.” That had been followed by a brutal summation of her flaws, starting with her “fat, lumpy ass” and ending with the prediction that she’d never be anything more than Jane’s coffee fetcher. He’d said it all in a flat, cold voice she’d never heard before, physically backing her into a corner of the kitchen until she begged him to stop, screaming. He’d dragged her to his doorstep as she cried, practically tossing her and her belongings onto the street. That traumatic night was four weeks before he arrested Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and the woman standing next to her in a DC street filled with burning cars. At the time, she and Jane had been in Norway. Darcy had been such a mess, Jane had wanted to put an ocean between Darcy and Rumlow.

“He’s alive,” Natasha said, watching her expression closely.

“You’re lying,” Darcy said, unable to keep her voice calm. “If this is some fucked up SHIELD head game--”

“Brock Rumlow is alive,” Romanoff said. “And I’m sure he’d like to see you. He’s been a triple agent for years.” Darcy was staring at Natasha when Jane found them.

“Hey--” she said, smile fading quickly. Darcy tried to smooth over her expression. “What’s going on?” Jane said.

“Why don’t you explain, _Agent_ Romanoff?” Darcy said. 

* * *

“You don’t have to do this,” Jane said to Darcy as they sat in the kitchen that evening. It was well after midnight. Romanoff had sent her a consulting contract and an NDA. She’d be seeing Rumlow in her official capacity as a therapist; that’d get around any objections about chain-of-command from Thad Ross. Darcy had taken off her good dress. She stared down at her coffee.

“No,” she said. “I don’t.” She looked around the large kitchen. Thor and Jane’s combined income provided the three of them with a remarkable living space. Darcy’s office was technically in the refinished basement, accessible by a tiny flight of stairs under the main entrance. Darcy liked living in Brooklyn. She had a burgeoning client list, given that she’d appeared alongside Thor and Jane in countless issues of _People_ and _Us Weekly,_ which made her semi-known to prospective clients _._ Everything had been going so well--

“It was wrong of Romanoff to corner you like that,” Jane said. “I can’t believe he’s still alive. Thor didn’t know.”

“I can’t believe it either,” Darcy said, feeling a well of conflicted emotions. “According to Natasha, he’s been a triple agent for years. He’s still working for SHIELD, embedded in some sort of place called The Raft. It’s a secret underwater prison. He’s been there on and off since they faked his death in Nigeria, getting information out of the other prisoners.”

“I can’t believe SHIELD is like this still,” Jane added, voice bitter. “Spies and secret prisons.” She shook her head vehemently. “Do you think Romanoff wants something?” Jane asked, then rolled her eyes in response to Darcy’s pointed look.

“She said I had unique emotional leverage,” Darcy said. “Which means she wants me to lever something out of him.” 

“Of course she does.” Jane sighed.

“Jane?” Darcy said quietly.

“Yeah?” she said, setting down her own cup.

“What if I want to see him?” Darcy said, looking up at Jane. Jane was frowning. “A part of me”--she swallowed-- “wants to confront him,” Darcy said. She looked at the contract on her tablet screen. The spot for her signature glowed in the low light. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: NevermoreBlack prompted: "Pre-Project Insight, Darcy and Brock are dating, but he savagely breaks her heart to protect her when Pierce suspects Rumlow might be too attached to her. (Which he is!) Perhaps it pushes Darcy to a mental breakdown, an eating disorder, a suicide attempt or hospitalization?"
> 
> That prompt + my love of Lucy Liu's Jane Watson on Elementary + Frank Grillo being paired with a psychologist on Billions right now = the idea of a Darcy/Brock fic where there is a role reversal of sorts. She's the more analytical, self-controlled one now.


	2. Terms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“Nice job, asshole,” Rumlow said to the guard as he passed Rumlow’s cell in the Raft. “You like being a glorified lunch lady?” They were distributing meals. The guard didn’t respond. “You see that fucker?” Rumlow said to the South African in the cell opposite him. The South African rolled his eyes at the food.

“Slop,” he said in his Afrikaans accent.

“No shit,” Rumlow said, looking at the plastic tray they’d slid through the hole in the door. He grimaced.

“Bad, yeah?” the other man said. There was some sort of colorless meat, peas, and an ambiguously stewed vegetable blend. He poked at it with a plastic spork.

“Might just kill me,” Rumlow cracked, opening the clear plastic on a packet of crackers. Inside the packaging, a small blue tablet was wedged between the crackers. He ate them and then lay back on the bed in his cell, humming off key. Several hours passed. The other inmates ate. But he was still and unmoving. When he started to thrash and foam at the mouth, he knocked the food tray on the floor. 

“Hey, hey!” the man in the cell opposite yelled.

“Fuck,” one of the guards yelled, when they got to the cell. “He’s seizing again.” They had to hold him down until the fit ended. It took several long, agonizing minutes. Finally, they could lift him to his feet. “Watch those fucking peas,” the first guard warned the other. The peas had smeared across the flooring. “Don’t slip, Bobby. This HYDRA asshole is heavy,” he complained. 

“Maybe medical will put him out of his misery this time,” Bobby said, as they carried out a prone Rumlow. His cellmates watched avidly. There was spittle and blood on his face.

“He bit his fucking tongue,” the guard said. 

* * *

Darcy met Natasha on the Coney Island boardwalk on a Tuesday. It was just after noon. “It’s a nice view,” Natasha said, looking over the water. “I’ll have to tell Rogers and Barnes I’ve been here.” She had a drink from one of the vendors.

“Yeah,” Darcy said. She kept her sunglasses on. It was a bright day. She’d seen patients this morning.

“You’re saying no?” Natasha asked her. She hadn’t signed the paperwork. 

“I have conditions,” Darcy said. “I don’t see him in my office--”

“Which is also your home,” Natasha said. 

“And you tell me what information you want me to get out of Crossbones,” Darcy said. “I need to know what I’m doing for SHIELD.”

“He hasn’t been Crossbones in awhile,” Natasha said. “Helen Cho healed his burns. I thought having his looks back would make him more well-adjusted, but I was wrong.” Darcy looked at her. “I can admit a mistake,” Natasha said, slurping from her straw. 

“You haven’t answered my question,” Darcy said. The slurping was annoying, she thought.

“He’s a valuable asset. And we can’t fire him,” Natasha said. “He needs....someone.” Her voice was quiet. There was a lull in the conversation. Darcy caught herself curling her hands around the boardwalk rail in anger.

“And you think I can fix him?” Darcy said. “I’m not fucking him back into wellness, Romanoff. My vagina isn’t magical. I’m not treating him any differently from a normal patient,” Darcy said. She glared. To her surprise, Natasha smiled.

“Good. I’ll find you a safe location to have sessions with him,” she said. “Send me the paperwork tonight?”

“Send me an address first,” Darcy said sharply. “And I want 20% more money, since you’ve just clarified that he’ll be a problem patient.”

“Sure,” Natasha said. Darcy turned on her heel and walked away. “He checks your name in the databases,” she called at Darcy. 

Darcy didn’t look back.

Natasha sent her the updated terms that night. There was an address for an apartment, too. “This would be where I’ll be treating him,” Darcy said to Jane.

“Will he be living there?” Jane asked. It was a residential loft building. Darcy had googled. “I don’t think I like that,” she added.

“I’ll take my taser,” Darcy said. She sighed. “I’m going to sign these and then hit the elliptical.” She’d already planned out what she’d do once she signed. They had a machine in one of the bedrooms, mostly for Jane’s bouts of energy. She swore it helped her think. Darcy needed to think.

“Okay,” Jane said. Darcy signed the contract with a tablet stylus, careful to note that it still said she could quit at any time, and then went upstairs. She popped her earbuds in and turned up the music on her phone. Piano keys clinked in her ears as the track picked up. Timber Timbre was singing “Bad Ritual” as she pushed the incline up and increased her pace.

  
  
  


* * *

“Rumlow,” Hill said, leaning over the hospital bed. The man in the bed grimaced and opened his eyes slowly. “You cut it close again,” she said. He had visible bruising and a concussion from the seizures, the doctors had told her. He hadn’t activated the correct retrieval protocols for them to pull him out of the Raft before his sedatives from Banner kicked in. Usually, they faked medical emergencies to explain his disappearances. But he knew full well that delays could kill him--and he’d let himself seize in his cell, instead of following orders to confirm he’d taken the pill by sending back his tray.

“Yeah?” Rumlow said, wryly. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Well, I was feeling no pain--”

“Your heart rate was in the basement,” Hill said sharply. 

“They have those underwater?” Rumlow said sarcastically. He sat up as Hill moved away. “When do I go back in? I think I’ve got a lead on that arms dealer who sold to Zemo, if I can get Klaue’s guy to talk--”

“We’re moving you to New York. Special assignment,” Hill told him.

“What kind of assignment?” he said, rubbing his face. 

“You’re going into therapy,” Hill told him. “Direct orders from Fury. He wants you to rest--”

“Come the fuck on, Maria,” Rumlow said. Anyone else would have flinched.

“We’re all tired of your method acting,” she told him sharply. “Everyone’s done.”

“I thought I was supposed to be convincing,” he complained.

“Yeah, that’s a problem for you, isn’t it?” Hill said. She sighed. “You’ve been out for two days. A lot can happen in two days. You have a therapist now.”

“Well, that’s fucking wonderful,” Rumlow said.

  
  



	3. Re-Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing! Author's note: I'm probably taking some liberties with patient-therapist confidentiality here, but it's SHIELD, so I can't imagine Darcy and Jane not talking about it...a little.

“You’re wearing that?” Jane said, when she saw Darcy after her morning sessions. She’d grabbed her coat and was looking for a particular scarf in the hall closet. It was cold outside. She was supposed to meet Rumlow in forty minutes. They were having daily sessions in the afternoon; she’d told Romanoff that she was fine meeting him alone, but Romanoff had insisted on being present for the re-introductions.

“Yeah,” Darcy said. She looked down at her dress. “What’s wrong with it? Did I spill something?” she asked. It was one her favorites of the dresses she’d made: a dark purple jersey with three quarter sleeves, a boatneck, and a slit cutout over her sternum. She’d paired it with thick black tights and boots. 

“You just look really nice, that’s all,” Jane said.

“I want to make it clear that I’m there as a professional,” Darcy said. “Set a boundary by looking professional, being on time.” She put her coat on.

“Sure,” Jane said. 

“What is that face?” Darcy asked.

“You want to look especially good because he’s an ex, too,” Jane pointed out. Darcy inhaled and then huffed out air.

“Yes,” she admitted, frowning. “My ego’s involved because he’s an ex. And in case things get challenging, because it’s SHIELD. No games. I won’t be patronized, either. I wanted...armor.”

“You look great,” Jane said.

“Thank you,” Darcy said. She found the scarf and draped it around her neck, then hugged Jane. “I’ll be back for dinner. I’m taking an Uber. I left the address on the fridge.”

“You smell good, too,” Jane said. “What is that?”

“Samples of a ridiculously expensive Bvlgari I got them to make me at Nordstorm for free,” Darcy said, grinning. “Omnia Crystalline. I’ll get you some. Bye, Jane!” 

“Very fancy and professional,” Jane called out as she shut the door. 

* * *

“I can’t believe you’ve got me doing fucking therapy,” Brock complained to Natasha. They were standing in the loft that SHIELD had rented for him. 

“You should do something with this space,” Natasha said, “it has great light. Art therapy?” There was nothing personal in the room. He’d ordered a mattress and stuck it on the floor and had a cheap card table in the kitchen. Natasha had insisted on the two armchairs that sat in the middle of the room. He couldn’t bear to look at them. 

“I’m not staying here long,” he muttered, under his breath.

“Hmmm?” Nat said, turning back to face Rumlow. “You don’t like art?”

“What am I gonna do, play with little swirls of fucking paint?” he said, more loudly. 

“It might be cathartic to create instead of destroy,” she said, moving over to adjust one of the chairs. It scraped on the floor. He frowned.

“When’s this fucker gonna show?” he asked. In the hallway, the elevator dinged.

“Now,” Natasha said. She glanced back at him as she walked towards the door. “Be nice,” she said. Rumlow scoffed.

“I’m always nice,” he said back. He was turning one of the rings on his fingers nervously when he heard a female voice, not visible from where he was sitting. The entrance to the loft was tucked in an alcove.

“It’s a very good space,” she said, as Natasha offered to take her coat. “Thank you.” A woman, then. Heels clicked on the floor, coming nearer and nearer. He looked up. 

“Darcy?” he said, thinking for a moment that he was hallucinating. She was standing across the room from him, looking the same, but somehow different. 

“Hello,” she said. It sounded like her. It must be her.

“Darcy has a private practice,” Natasha said, following behind her. It dawned on him what was happening.

“She’s a fucking therapist now? This is my therapist?” he said. She was circling the room, looking at the chairs and the windows. When he spoke, Darcy looked at him coolly.

“I’ve agreed to treat you, yes,” she said, expression going tougher. “I see you weren't told. Shall we start with that?” She’d stopped behind one of the chairs.

“No,” he said, looking solely at Natasha. “I’m not doing it. You can tell Fury to fuck off.”

“All right,” Darcy said. She turned away from him. “I’ll send you a bill for today,” she told Natasha, clearly angry. He watched her back as she moved farther from him, then closed his eyes. A moment later, he heard the elevator ding. She was gone. He looked at Natasha. She tilted her head quizzically.

“So, art therapy is our only hope, huh?” Romanoff said. He stared at her for a long moment. “I thought you’d handle this better--we all know you dumped her. Jane went to Fury for the transfer.” He could feel himself shrink at her words.

“Pierce was asking questions,” he said flatly. “Wasn’t my choice.”

“You have a choice now,” Romanoff said. She turned and left him alone.

* * *

“He said no? Can he say no?” Jane said, as the three of them made dinner that night. Thor was chopping vegetables as Darcy heated a wok.

“He refused,” Darcy said, shrugging. “Which is probably for the best. If he said yes, but then fought me at every step, it would be worse. It didn't help that it was a surprise for him.”

"Assholes," Jane said. "Sorry, Thor." He merely winked at her.

"Pretty much," Darcy agreed.

“And you’re okay?” Jane said carefully. Darcy realized Jane was worried she’d feel rejected.

“I’m okay,” Darcy said. “Really.” She hesitated. “He’s not the same, though,” she added. It felt disloyal, oddly. But he wasn’t her patient--just an ex she’d run into at work, technically. Jane looked curious. She paused and tried to figure out how to describe it without seeming shallow. “He looks tired,” she said slowly. “And he has these new tattoos on his forearms and he just--he seems _older_ somehow.”

“We’re all older,” Jane said, grinning. She cut her eyes at Thor. “Some of us are really old,” she added.

“I will not take offense at this, because it is true,” Thor said, dumping the vegetables off the cutting board into the wok. He grinned as Jane bumped his hip. Darcy had put her in charge of sauces.

“Thank you,” Darcy said. Thor got plates out of the cabinet to set the table and left the kitchen. Darcy stirred---and sighed. 

“What?” Jane said.

“I just--I never thought I would look at him and not feel attraction,” Darcy confessed in a low voice. “But now, there’s nothing. It’s like he’s a different person. Or that was a different woman’s life.” She caught herself sighing again. “Sorry, I don’t know why that’s so weird.” Jane merely smiled at her.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I ran into Donald?” she said. “It was like I couldn’t understand why I’d missed him so much.” Darcy nodded.

* * *

They had just sat down when the doorbell rang. Darcy and Jane looked at each other. “I’ll get it,” Jane said, rising from her chair. Darcy listened as she opened the door. “Rumlow?” Jane said.

“Is Darcy here?” she heard him say. 

“She’s not available,” Jane said crisply. Darcy got up and went to the front door.

“Jane, go eat,” Darcy said quietly. 

“Okay,” Jane said. As Jane backed up, Darcy leaned against the doorframe and looked at Rumlow. He was standing in the shadows of the stoop, hands in his jacket pockets. He looked agitated.

"Yes?" Darcy said.

"I wanted to talk about what happened today," Rumlow said.

"Sure," she said, not moving.

“You’re not letting me in?” he said.

“You’re here as a potential patient, not a friend,” Darcy said calmly. She wanted her home to be off-limits. He rolled his neck, looking offended. 

“All right,” he said, rocking on his heels. Darcy wondered if he’d always looked this rough, or if she was seeing him with new eyes. She waited him out. She thought he would leave when she made him stand there, but he stayed planted. He huffed and gazed at some middle distance, head turned away from her, and then rubbed the back of his neck. She recognized those gestures. He was anxious? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--have done that. I fuck up sometimes,” he said, nostrils flaring. 

“Apology accepted,” Darcy said. “I understand if I’m not the right therapist for you. I can send Natasha some recommendations--”

“No,” he said bluntly. “I wanna work with you. Just you.” 

“You’re certain?” she said. “I don’t appreciate my time being wasted.” He flinched like she’d smacked him.

“Uh-huh,” he said. Then he smiled wryly. “You know, there was a time when you liked me.” She recognized it as a deflection from discomfort.

“Yes,” Darcy said in a soft voice. His eyes held hers. “The parts of you I actually knew. I assume some of them weren’t for work?” She said it carefully. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Some of them.” He looked at her for a long moment.

“Tomorrow at one?” she said. When he nodded, she told him goodnight and shut the door. Jane and Thor looked up when she went back into the dining room. 

“Everything okay?” Jane said.

“Yes,” Darcy said, sitting down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dresses from Chiara Boni's La Petite Robe collection are my inspiration for Darcy's clothes. This chapter's dress is the Kate:  
> https://augustinasdesignerboutique.com/chiara-boni-la-petite-robe-laguna-kate-dress/
> 
> And last chapter's spike necklace, which she wears throughout: https://www.etsy.com/listing/458621556/sterling-silver-spike-lariat-necklace?ref=shop_home_active_2&pro=1&frs=1


	4. Ethics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

Brock checked the clock on his phone again. It was only eleven-fifty. He sighed. Waiting for Darcy was agonizing. He’d gone out the night before and actually bought things with his SHIELD living stipend, just to have something to do. Now there were mugs in the cabinet and a coffeemaker on the counter. She had to still drink coffee, right? He paced the apartment, readjusting the chairs. “What the fuck am I doing?” he asked himself. It was too quiet. He needed a television, just for the distraction and noise. He was anxious, just thinking about being alone with her. What would she say to him? He expected some sort of blazing confrontation--but she was oddly quiet when he went to the brownstone. The Darcy he remembered had been open and snarky, not the type to let silences linger. Or not invite him into her home. It made him feel unsure of what she might say or do. He’d barely slept last night and already been to the gym this morning. Brock rubbed his jaw. He should bail, he thought. Disappear. He’d hurt her so badly. But the desire to flee warred with the equally strong desire to see her again. He’d never gotten over Darcy Lewis. “Shit, shit,” he muttered. Time seemed to pass slowly. “I can’t believe I’m fucking talking to myself,” he said out loud, deciding to go lay on the mattress on the floor. He would rest. Just close his eyes for thirty minutes. Not think about her. No. He stretched out on the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Of course, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. His mind drifted. He’d taken her on vacation once. They’d gone to stay in a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains for a long weekend. It had been a complete fiasco--drizzly weather, a bedroom and bathroom that was oddly freezing, and muddy hiking trails. She hated hiking. The nearest restaurant was a stuffy resort place with overpriced food. He’d ended up building a fire in the living room and they’d dragged the pillows and blankets out to the sofa, ordering pizza and having sex. Just the memory left him achingly hard and depressed. She’d been happy, then. He’d been happy, too. 

When he woke up, Darcy was buzzing his apartment’s video security doorbell. “Fuck,” Brock said, clamoring up. He was lucky he remembered to zip his fucking pants. He opened the door. “Good...morning?” Darcy said, tilting her head. The corners of her mouth turned up. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I, uh, went to the gym early and then I fell asleep--how’d you know?”

“Bedhead,” she said, grinning at his hair as he let her in. 

“Yeah,” he admitted. She put her coat and bag on the countertop. 

“Actually, I’m glad you’re well rested,” she told him, reaching in the bag. “I always like people to be well rested when we sign binding agreements.”

“Huh?” he said, studying her back. She was dressed all in black and had her hair up. That was different. He eyed his way up her body from her boots to the soft fabric of her pants, clinging to her ass, and the fitted shirt she was wearing. He was thinking about how tempted he was to touch the loose tendrils at the back of her neck and around her ears when she turned. 

“I’ve got something for you to sign,” she said coolly. 

“Yeah?” he said. Her shirt had one of those strange open slashes in the front again, except this one was angled so it revealed her right collarbone and slanted down to the bare skin just over the opposite breast. He was befuddled and turned on at the same time. How had she gotten more sexy? She gave him a brief smile.

“It’s a very standard patient services agreement. It explains the goals of our initial sessions and confidentially, how SHIELD is financially responsible for payment, my reporting obligations and instances where I’d legally need to disclose the information you share--which are very rare--and the therapist who takes over my practice files if something were to happen to me,” she said.

“What do you mean, if something were to happen to you?” he said.

“If I get hit by a city bus or accidentally portaled to Jotunheim, a therapist from NYU will come and take over with my clients. You wouldn’t be required to stay with him, but that ensures chain of custody with client files,” Darcy explained. “For your privacy.”

“Yeah,” he said. He understood chain of custody. 

“I have a paper copy for you to read and keep and an electronic copy for me,” she said, holding out the paper version.

“Lemme just wash my hands and, uh--would you like coffee?” Brock said. He moved to the sink.

“You don’t have to make me coffee,” she said smoothly. He stared at her, water running.

“You’re turning down coffee?” he said, astonished. To his surprise, she laughed. 

But she was insistent that he read all of the document, even when he told her that he trusted her and made to sign it immediately. They sat at his terrible card table in the kitchen as he read. He felt sheepish. “I didn’t buy furniture,” he said. She smelled great--it was the faintest clean smell, incredibly subtle. Like good soap. He only smelled it when they were this close. 

“It’s fine,” she said. Whatever she really thought, he couldn’t tell. He tried not to stare at her. 

“You don’t mind working like this?” he said, signing as he got to the final paragraph.

“No,” she said. There was a pause. “Technically, the most problematic thing about working with you is that we have a history. It’s unethical to treat someone who you--in our situation,” she said. “I should refer you to another therapist.” 

“But you’re treating me,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Because it’s SHIELD,” Darcy said.

“That’s what made you say yes?” he said, surprised.

“I think that it’s important for you to have someone you’d trust, given your life experiences--and after I saw you yesterday, I realized we didn’t really know each other years ago. We’re very different people now and I think we can work together. Especially if you genuinely want therapy,” she said. Her voice was calm and collected.

“Yeah,” he lied. “I do.” He didn’t care what they talked about. He listened as she explained that their initial visits would be about assessing his concerns and the issues that brought him to therapy. “So therapy could bring up difficult and painful issues for me?” he said wryly. It was on the first page of the agreement.

“Possibly,” she said. They moved to the more comfortable chairs when he suggested it. “What would you like to talk about first?” Darcy said. He rubbed his jaw.

“I, uh--I don’t know? What do people usually talk about?” he said.

“All kinds of things,” she said. “Recent life changes?”

“My boss is making me rest and discuss my feelings,” he said, unable to quell the sarcasm in his voice.

“Is that sarcasm I hear?” she asked.

“A little,” he said. He leaned back and sighed. “Do you really believe in this sh--stuff?” He gestured. “Because I seem to remember some eye-rolling and joking about people who pay other people to listen to them talk?” he said, tilting his head.

“You’re deflecting,” she told him, smiling. He smiled back slowly.

“It’s a valid question--you went from somebody who didn’t believe in therapy to an actual fucking counselor,” Brock said. He pointed a finger at her. She looked at him with an amused expression.

“I got therapy,” Darcy said. “And then I really got therapy. I was in my twenties then and more judgy about people than I should’ve been. Now I understand better that everyone’s just going through what they’re going through. Having someone who listened and gave me CBT worksheets changed my life.” She paused, then smiled. “So, tell me what you’re trying not to talk about?”

“Shit,” Brock said. He sighed more heavily, threading together his fingers. There was a long pause before she spoke in a gentle voice.

“If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to,” she said. “I know plenty of good, qualified people who might--”

“No,” he said bluntly. “It’s hard to sit here and talk to you, but fuck if I wanna talk to anybody else.”

“Okay,” she said. The way she said it--he’d heard her say okay in that arch, playful way a thousand times. He’d thought he’d never hear it again. It made him want to please her. He talked about work—all the recent stuff. He wasn’t sure how to talk about the other things. 

He walked her to the door at the end of the session. “Tomorrow, same time?” she offered. 

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you hate me?” he said.

“Brock,” Darcy said. Her voice was gentle.

“That’s what I want to talk about,” he said. “What happened between us. Next time.”

“I wouldn’t treat someone I hated,” she said quietly. 

“But I’m not a friend, either,” he pointed out. “You’d never leave a friend on your doorstep.”

“No,” Darcy admitted. “We’re—we can’t be friends, not the way we were.”

“Because you’re my therapist?” He knew he sounded scornful. She sighed. “C’mon,” Brock complained. “Who cares about rules?” She shook her head.

“This is difficult to say, but I believe it’s my job to be honest with you.” She paused, expression serious. “At first, I thought I wanted confront you, but I realized that I don’t want to treat you like an ex.”

“You don’t?” he said, feeling irrationally hopeful. Darcy nodded.

“I just don’t feel the way I felt six years ago. Not romantically, not anymore,” she said quietly. “That’s why we can work together. We’ve both changed.”

“Oh.”

  
  


* * *

Darcy rang his video doorbell, feeling cautiously optimistic. She thought they’d handled things well last time--she’d felt slightly uncomfortable confessing that her feelings were different now, but she thought he’d taken it well. “Hel--oh,” Darcy said, when he opened the door. He was wrapped in a towel. There was young blonde woman wrapped around him.

“Hey,” Brock said, as the woman kissed his neck. “Babe, this is my therapist. Darcy, Jennifer.” 

“Hi,” the woman said. “It’s nice to meet you. I didn’t know therapists did house calls.”

“I’ve got a lot of problems, apparently,” Brock said. He’d said it jokingly, but Darcy caught the edge in his voice.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Darcy said calmly, taking off her coat. “Just typical guy stuff.”

“I gotta get my bag,” Jennifer said, detaching herself to get stuff off the counter. Brock was watching her, Darcy realized. He made no move to go get dressed. He crossed his arms. They’d need to set boundaries about clothes, Darcy thought, sighing internally. “I love your outfit,” Jennifer told Darcy. She was dressed in grey pants and a mock-turtleneck with one shoulder cut out. “And those earrings are so cool!” Jennifer added.

“Thank you,” Darcy said politely. She’d put her hair up to wear her favorite silver pair, metal waves that threaded through her ears without a traditional hook.

“She dresses like she’s been sent from the future to kill me,” Brock said. "Like a chick assassin in a sci fi movie."

“No one ever died from therapy,” Darcy said. “At least not with me.”

“Maybe those people who got dosed with LSD in the sixties?” Jennifer said. 

“What?” Brock said, looking visibly startled.

“They did that, didn’t they?” Jennifer said. She looked to Darcy.

“Yes,” Darcy said. “Although I’m not entirely up on the details. It was probably very unethical.” She grinned in spite of herself.

“Darcy’s very into ethics,” Brock said, casually barbed.

“That’s really great,” Jennifer said.

“I think so,” Darcy said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fashion inspo for this chapter, since I'm having real, genuine fun with that--Darcy's clothes are from a really cool Etsy shop called "MarcellaModa." I'm leaning heavily into modernist silver jewelry, too.
> 
> Her earrings: https://www.etsy.com/listing/87287866/large-silver-hoop-earrings-big-ss-hoops?ref=reviews  
> First outfit: https://www.etsy.com/listing/453654948/cutout-neck-blouse-cocktail-top-off?ref=shop_home_active_237&frs=1&sca=1  
> Second outfit: https://www.etsy.com/listing/747546691/new-cut-out-top-long-sleeve-blouse?ref=related-8&frs=1


	5. Radical Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“I’m going to go put on pants,” Brock announced, when the door shut behind Jennifer.

“Great. I always prefer it when my clients wear pants,” Darcy said breezily.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen it before,” he said, moving over to the bedroom area of the apartment. Darcy knew without turning her head that he’d taken off the towel. Not looking back, she moved to the armchair and sat down. She could hear him getting dressed.

“Jennifer seems very fun,” Darcy said.

“What?” he said.

“There might be something worth exploring there,” Darcy added. “If you wanted to use this time to focus on a relationship.”

“Nope,” he said flatly. He came at sat opposite Darcy, clad in jeans and a t-shirt. 

“No shoes?” she said. He shrugged. “And no interest in dating? Why not? She seems great,” Darcy said.

“Why don’t you go out with her, huh?” Brock said dryly. He was trying to antagonize her, she thought.

“Point taken,” Darcy said coolly. “You’re not interested in a relationship.” She wasn’t going to push the topic. He shook his head, then began speaking as if she had asked a question.

“I’m no fucking good with relationships,” he said. “I work too much, I can’t be honest about what I do, all that bullshit.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Darcy said, nodding gently. 

“There’s no need to play therapist with me,” he said sharply.

“Excuse me? I’m not playing at anything,” Darcy said, feeling herself grin. “If you’re not interested, then you’re not--” she began.

“C’mon,” Brock said. “You’re fucking with me, pretending that you’re not mad at me and shit.”

“You think I’m angry?” Darcy said. She held his gaze. 

“All this”---he gestured at her--”what the fuck is it?” Darcy stared at him.

“All what?” she said, genuinely puzzled. Did he mean therapy?

“You’re pretending to be above it all, you dress fucking weird, what the hell is going on?” he said bluntly. “You trying to fuck with my head?”

“They’re just clothes,” Darcy said. “I like clothes and these are my work clothes now.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “I remember when you wore mac n cheese socks. This isn’t you.” He looked rattled. Darcy paused and took a deep breath.

“I still have those socks,” she said gently. “I just wear them at home now. I’m not trying to upset you.”

“You’re not angry?” Brock said. His entire body was tense. 

“I’m not angry with you, no,” Darcy said. At her words, he shook his head.

“There’s no way in hell you aren’t fucking angry. I hate my—my,” he stuttered. “Fuck.” He rubbed his face with both hands.

“What purpose would it serve to scream and cuss at you?” Darcy said quietly, leaning forward. “So I feel good for five minutes and shitty the rest of my life? I thought you were dead for five years, you know that? Five years is a long time, Brock.”

“Motherfucker,” he said, voice grim.

“I can admit that I wanted to be angry,” Darcy said, trying to stay calm and professional. He was still covering his face with his hands. “I’m only human. But it dawned on me that it wouldn’t change anything. You put the words out there and neither of us can undo it,” she said. “Even if we wanted to. So, we move from here.” At that, he turned to look at her.

“Oh, yeah?” he said. “How the fuck do we do that, sweetheart?”

“Very carefully,” Darcy said, leaning back again. She studied him for a moment in the silence between them. He was taking slow, deep breaths. “You know,” she said. “There were places I wanted to go and things I wanted to do and so I learned to present myself in a certain way. Some people are snobs, unfortunately, and I knew they would judge my fun socks. They might be a barrier to being taken seriously. If I wanted to help people I really cared about, I had to navigate the world successfully.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking somewhere to her left. He looked tired.

“So now I have a work wardrobe and a home wardrobe,” she said. “But I still feel the same inside.” Darcy put her hands together in her lap. “The home wardrobe is mostly pajamas and yoga pants, but you knew that.” 

“Yeah?” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up. 

“Uh-huh,” she said, smiling back. “There’s a couple of things I learned--DBT techniques--”

“DBT?”

“Dialectical behavior therapy,” Darcy said. “It’s a subset of cognitive behavioral therapy, techniques to help you regulate emotions.” He nodded.

“That’s why you’re so fucking calm?” he said.

“I’m not  _ always  _ calm,” Darcy said. “But, a little bit, yeah. The idea is to be able to analyze your thought patterns, so when you feel yourself getting upset, you step back, analyze the underlying emotion, and also practice something called reality acceptance.” 

“Yeah?” Brock said. “How’s that work? You practice reality acceptance with Braithewaite?”

“Who?” Darcy said. 

“The British guy? Romanoff says he still works with Foster,” Brock said. “I thought you’d gotten married.”

“Oh,” Darcy said, pausing. “Ian Boothby?” Brock nodded. It was wildly inappropriate to discuss your personal life with patients. But you didn’t treat your exes, either. She shook her head slightly. “We decided we were better off as friends,” she said, trying to protect his privacy. “And yes, it was difficult--awkward--to see him at first, but I stepped back and realized I had two choices: one, I could avoid him, but that would make things harder on all of us, including Jane, or two, I could try to be friends with him because he is a good friend. So, whenever we were around each other, I tried to step back and analyze my feelings of discomfort and then approach him in a nonjudgemental way.”

“And how the fuck do you do that?” he said.

“I’m not saying it’s easy,” Darcy said, smiling at his tone. “But whenever I feel annoyed or frustrated, I try to remind myself that it doesn’t help to get angry or snap.” Brock snorted. “What?” Darcy said.

“I just hit things,” he said.

“Exercise works, too,” she said. “One of the goals of DBT is doing things you enjoy every day.”

“You’re just not going to be mad at me, huh?” Brock said. 

“I’m going to try not to be,” Darcy said. “So, keep going to the gym and doing other things you enjoy. I brought you some books on mindfulness, by the way.”

“Homework?” he said dryly.

“Think of it as free entertainment,” she replied. “But I know you’ve got a talent for this.” She knew he understood DBT instinctively; he’d always been analytical and careful. One of the things that had startled her years ago was seeing how calm he was in all the Triskelion footage.

“Oh yeah?” he said.

“You were always careful in everything you did,” Darcy said.

“Was I?” Brock said. 

* * *

“Darce,” Jane said, coming into the kitchen. Darcy and Thor were prepping dinner together while Jane did space math. “Can you come here?”

“Yeah?” Darcy said. She followed Jane to the front window of the brownstone.

“Why is Brock Rumlow standing on the sidewalk with a bunch of pizza boxes?” Jane asked. He appeared to be pacing back and forth.

“I have no idea,” Darcy said. She moved to the front door and opened it. “Brock, whatcha doing?” she asked.

“Hey,” he said. He climbed the front steps. “I brought pizza.”

“You brought pizza?” Darcy said slowly.

“You’re friends with Boothby. Be friends with me,” he said. “I got you pesto swirl. You still eat pesto swirl, right?”

“You’re bribing me with pesto swirl to be friends?” Darcy said. She still loved pesto swirl.

“Yes,” Brock said. “Well, you and Foster and Thor. I got him Hawaiian and her pepperoni.”

“I’ll take that,” Jane said, ducking around Darcy to snag the pizzas.

“Thank you, Jane,” Darcy said dryly. She stood there for a second, debating whether or not to let him in. His expression was hopeful--almost vulnerable flickers of emotion across his face. “C’mon in,” she said. He stepped inside slowly, looking nervous. Then he looked at her as she shut and locked the door. 

“Nice socks,” he said, grinning. She was wearing socks, leggings, and a sweatshirt that said  _ Coffee and Chill. _

“You realize this is completely unethical, right?” Darcy said. 

“Those are little margaritas on the socks, huh?” Brock said. “That book you loaned me has all this stuff about attending to personal relationships, so I thought I’d start with you.” He looked at Jane and Thor when they walked into the dining room. “Do you guys fucking hate me or what?”

“No,” Thor said gently. 

“Nope,” Jane said, a slice of pizza in her mouth.

“That’s good,” Brock said. “I don’t get it, but it’s good.” He sat down.

“Darcy told me it was a waste of time to spend energy hating people,” Jane said. “It’s helped me a lot. Most of the time.” Thor nodded.

“We’re still working on her feelings about the reviewers of her articles,” Darcy said. 

“Yeah?” Brock said, grinning. “What does Darcy work on?”

“Not yelling at the sewing machine,” Jane said.

“Yeah,” Darcy said, sighing as she took her first bite of pesto swirl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the commenter who mentioned DBT! I read about it and it is fascinating and so useful.


	6. Distress Tolerance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

Brock stayed for an hour or so after dinner, talking and telling SHIELD stories. He seemed happy and relaxed. The most relaxed Darcy had seen him that week. It was odd to see a wide, beaming smile on his face. She’d very nearly forgotten that smile. Darcy walked him to the door. “Uh, I know I maybe overstepped--” he began, then paused, blinking. There was a moment of silence in the hallway. Darcy took pity on him.

“Yes,” she told him. “You did overstep.” She made her voice arch. He grinned slowly.

“You’re teasing me,” he said. 

“A little,” Darcy said. “You sort of walked into it. I couldn’t resist.” She leaned against the doorframe. 

“That doesn’t sound very professional,” Brock said, looking down at her. His gaze was intense. She broke eye contact first, recognizing the particular charge of that look.

“Well, I guess we should go back to our professional footing tomorrow,” Darcy said, eyes on the silver rings on his fingers. She glanced up for his reaction.

“We have to, huh?” Brock said, scrunching his nose. He looked deeply reluctant. “I liked tonight, being around you at home.” He looked down at her feet and sighed heavily.

“It’s the socks, isn’t it?” Darcy said. She tilted her head. 

“Sure,” he said, smirking. “I really fucking miss those.” Darcy nodded, playing along as if they were really talking about socks, and leaned forward to whisper. 

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she said. “Sometimes, I’m wearing the fun socks with my work boots.” That made him crack a smile.

“I should’ve known,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “Tomorrow, huh? It’s a good thing I’ve got more issues than _TIME_ or you’d be sick of seeing me.”

“What if we do something different tomorrow?” she said.

“Different?” he said. There was an edge to his voice.

“Walk and talk therapy at Prospect Park?” she offered. “Weather’s supposed to be warmer than usual.” He looked relieved.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

“Hold on,” she said. “I just remembered, I’ve got a worksheet for you.” She left him standing in the foyer, went upstairs, retrieved a paper copy of the worksheet, and brought it down to him. “Just take a look at this, tell me what you think,” Darcy said.

“Distress Tolerance?” Brock said.

“Distress Tolerance,” Darcy repeated, nodding. “It’s very useful.”

“Okay. Tomorrow,” he repeated. She opened the door for him and watched as he went down the steps, worksheet in hand. He turned at the last minute. “Darcy?”

“Yeah?” she said.

“I’m sorry. I mean, I’m sorry about a lot of shit,” Brock said, “but I’m sorry I bribed your roommates with pizza to get into your house.”

“That’s all right,” she said.

“It is?” Brock said. He looked faintly surprised.

“It won’t happen again,” she told him. He nodded, nostrils flaring.

“It won’t happen again,” he repeated back.

* * *

“Why’d you let him stay?” Jane said, coming out into the hallway while Darcy was still standing by the door.

“Hmm?” Darcy said, turning. Jane had sort of snuck up on her while she was lost in thought.

“You let him stay,” Jane said. “I know you, you only do things for reasons.”

“You shouldn’t be so nosy about patient-therapist treatment decisions,” Darcy said. “I notice you ate his pizza.”

“Because I thought you’d make him leave with the pizza,” Jane said. “I was hungry.” Darcy laughed. “Are you starting to have feelings for him again?” Jane asked gently.

“No,” Darcy replied, shaking her head. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s not?” Jane said. Her expression was highly skeptical.

“Part of working with people is knowing when you need to apply pressure,” Darcy said, “and also knowing when to be”--she paused-- “more compassionate. It would have upset him to be turned away tonight. And that’s all I’m going to say about my _patient,_ Janeybug.”

“Sure,” Jane said. “He’s just a patient like Thor was just a natural research occurrence.”

“Don’t give me that face,” Darcy said. “The two situations are completely different.” She went over to the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”

“Uh-huh,” Jane said. “What happens when he tests you again?”

“I’ll recommend he see a different therapist,” Darcy said calmly. She went into her bedroom and sat down on the bed. Jane had interrupted a train of thought about whether or not Brock would be open to practicing emotional regulation skills. She thought he might. Two days ago, he’d barely been able to look at her. Now he wanted to spend time with her. That had to count for something.

* * *

“We’re walking and talking, huh?” Brock said, when Darcy met him in the Concert Grove section of Prospect Park. 

“Yup,” Darcy said. “Thank you.” He’d brought her a latte.

“I remembered you liked those.” He glanced around as they walked. She caught his expression.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

“Heads,” he said dryly.

“You mean the busts of Mozart and”--she studied a stone column topped with a bronze face--”Beethoven?”

“Yeah. Those fuckers,” he said. “You wanna sit?” He gestured to a bench.

“Okay. I thought you liked classical music, you used to play it in the gym,” she said, feeling mildly curious, as she folded herself down onto the bench slats. She looked at him. 

“It helps you in the gym,” he said, shrugging noncommittally. “I’m not sure why we’re in a park in Brooklyn, though.” Around them, people jogged, pushed kids in strollers, and talked. Darcy let her eyes track a group of older people as they power walked past the bench. 

“I thought you’d like being outside,” she told him, sipping her latte. “A nice change of pace. Does it not work?” She cut her eyes at Brock.

“Eh,” he said. “It doesn’t cause me distress.” Darcy laughed. “What?” he said.

“I’d forgotten that particular expression,” she said. At his questioning look, she clarified. “You scrunch your nose.” He smiled. They sat quietly. 

“Did you want me to talk?” he said.

“Sure,” she said, moving to get up.

“No, sit,” he said.

“Someone could overhear,” Darcy said. He shrugged. 

“That doesn’t matter so much,” he said. “I assume Romanoff and Fury bugged my place.” 

“Yeah,” Darcy said. “Normal rules don’t apply.” She felt herself clench her jaw.

“You’re pissed,” he said. She realized he was frowning.

“I want you to have privacy and everyone around you keeps failing--I’ve failed, too,” she added. 

“What do you mean, you failed?” he said.

“Technically, Jane shouldn’t even know who I’m treating, she doesn’t know anything about my other patients,” Darcy said, taking a deep breath to stem her irritation. “And that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. Darcy huffed.

“Yes, yes it does,” she said, more heatedly than she intended. “It does matter.” He looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“You need to do some thought exercises? Maybe reframe this more positively? Work on your emotional regulation?” Brock said wryly, smirking.

“Shit,” Darcy said, grinning. “Where’d you learn about emotion regulation?”

“I can Google,” Brock said. She smiled at him.

“You’re right--I let my emotional reactions take over,” Darcy said, sighing. “And you’re used to this situation with SHIELD and okay with it?”

“I’m used to it,” he said. He leaned back, echoing her sigh. “I have a lot of anger,” he added. He looked at her. “You’re listening, right?”

“Yeah,” Darcy said. “This is me trying to zip it.” He chuckled, then exhaled slowly.

“I’m angry that I gave so much of myself to the job,” Brock said. “I missed out on anything else that mattered--things that really mattered to me.” She stiffened slightly, but he didn’t notice her nervousness. He was looking ahead at some joggers. It was impossible to know if she was one of the things that mattered, Darcy thought, then chastised herself for being so self absorbed. She wanted to have mattered to him back then, that was the problem. She waited for Brock to speak again. “And I know it’s my own fucking fault. They took, but they took because I gave--gave them everything I had, all my skills, my loyalty.” There was a long pause and she almost said something, but then he started talking again. “But, uh, I’m practicing my distress tolerance,” he added, pulling the sheet out of his pocket. Darcy could see where he’d folded and unfolded it. There were notes written at each corner, although she couldn’t read them. “For fucking instance, I’ve been through worse than this.”

“Yeah?” she said. 

“I didn’t think I’d survive the Uprising,” he said. She nodded. “When I woke up in the hospital after the building collapse, it wasn't good,” he said, turning the page between his fingers. He rubbed at a crease with his thumb. “You know about the burns, right?”

“I saw you on the news,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, I was real noteworthy for a fucking minute,” he said. “This was before that. I, uh, wanted to call you, but I couldn’t.”

“You were badly injured,” Darcy began, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said bluntly. “I would have dialed a fucking phone with my toes, but Hill told me we couldn’t be sure about moles coming after you and Jane. She was high-value and you were safer in Norway--especially if somebody wanted to rattle me as a HYDRA traitor.”

“Oh.”

“The whole fucking plan was that I’d go undercover and round up HYDRA equipment and moles,” he said. “We’d get this done quickly. I never thought I’d still be doing this for five goddamn years.”

“Yeah,” Darcy said, breathing in and out slowly.

“Your jaw’s doing a thing again,” Brock said.

“Shut up,” she told him. He threw back his head and laughed. They were both laughing--and then the tears snuck up on her. “Shit,” Darcy said again. “Don’t mind me, I’m just--” she started to say, only he leaned over and kissed her. His mouth was soft and tentative, but she couldn't resist leaning into the familiarity. He must've realized it. Brock cupped the back of her head, pressing his mouth into hers' eagerly. “Why’d you do that?” she said, when he pulled back. Their faces were very close. Darcy was shaking like a leaf.

“I was, uh, creating a competing happy emotion to replace the upsetting one?” he said, blinking. “And I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”

“We shouldn’t,” Darcy whispered. His fingers grazed her cheekbone and she pressed her lips together to keep herself from leaning in again. “But I’m glad you read your worksheet.” Her voice was shaky. He looked at her for a long moment, then sat back when she dropped her eyes to his collarbone. Darcy could see his chest rising and falling. 

“I loved you so fucking much,” Brock said. “Pierce frightened me, asking about you. I fucking panicked. All I could think to do was scare you off. I knew he’d bugged my place, so it had to sound real. I needed you and Jane to get out of DC. You had to be gone.”

“You hurt me to save me and Jane from Pierce?” Darcy said, grip tight on her coffee cup.

"Yeah." He nodded, blinking. She averted her eyes. Some men hated to be seen crying. “Darcy?” he said, voice low.

“Yeah?” she said, pitching her voice, too.

“I still love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotion Regulation (DBT worksheet): https://www.therapistaid.com/worksheets/dbt-emotion-regulation-skills.pdf  
> Distress Tolerance: https://www.therapistaid.com/worksheets/dbt-distress-tolerance-skills.pdf


	7. De-Escalation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“I still love you,” Brock said. The words seemed to hang in the air. Darcy was staring straight ahead, expression unreadable. He couldn’t wait. “Say something.” _Say anything,_ he thought. _Tell me you love me._

“I’m your therapist,” Darcy said, voice quiet.

“Bullshit,” Brock said, feeling like he could vomit. “You’re not my therapist--” He knew as soon as he said it, it was the wrong thing: she turned, visibly upset.

“I _am_ your therapist,” Darcy said sharply. “This is a discussion we need to have calmly. Rationally.”

“You just kissed me,” he said, unable to resisting digging in. The word _rationally_ got under his skin.

“No, you kissed me,” she said. Darcy sighed and shook her head. “You crossed a boundary, Brock.”

“You wanted me to cross the boundary,” he insisted. He knew her--she’d kissed him back. It had felt like time folded in on itself and they were together again, just for a moment. “I know that,” he added.

“No,” Darcy said. “I actually don’t. I care about you enough to want--”

“If you care about me,” he said, leaning forward and covering her mouth with his fingers, “you’ll come back to me. Let’s try again. I need you, Darcy. The real you.” She turned her head to dodge his touch, frowning.

“This is the real me,” she said. He huffed, feeling wildly frustrated. She gazed at him, her face oddly tender. “We can’t undo time, Brock. We’re both very different people from what we were before. There’s no way to pretend that there’s been no change. And I do care about you”-- she paused and said it almost delicately--“enough to set my own feelings as your ex-girlfriend aside. I’m here as your therapist, telling you that some things just can’t be the same. You have to accept that.”

“You don’t want me, huh?” he said roughly.

“I want you to be stable and safe--that matters more to me than anything from before. Your well-being matters to me. It's more important than what I might want,” she said softly. She looked at him. “Do you think you could come to understand that?” Darcy asked. “Enough for us to continue working together?”

“You want to just keep doing this?” Brock said. He waved his coffee. “Jesus Christ, Darcy.” He felt like he could vomit again. “I tell you--I tell you _that_ and you want to turn it into a fucking therapy exercise?”

“I understand,” Darcy replied gently. “It’s okay, Brock. It’s okay.” She stood up. “I’m not upset that you still have feelings.”

“You’re leaving?” he said. She looked at him. The breeze blew strands of her hair. “You’re just going to fucking leave me, right now? With this on the table?”

“I think it’s best if I go,” Darcy said, “but I’m available twenty-four-seven if you have an emergency before we’ve established you with another therapist--”

“You are,” he said angrily. “You’re fucking walking out on me!”

“I will send Romanoff a list of people I think are trustworthy,” Darcy told him. She looked at him as he swore. “Brock,” she said gently, “look at me.”

“Yeah?” he said.

“You can’t date your therapist,” she said. “This is for the best.” 

“What is?” he said. “You walking away?” He wanted her to name it, be blunt about what was happening. 

“I’m just declining to treat you,” Darcy said. “I promise you that this is the right decision for both of us.” He watched, tilting between fury and grief, as she walked away.

* * *

He was still on the bench when Romanoff came and sat down beside him. “You okay?” she said. “That looked...difficult.”

“Fuck off, Natasha,” he said bluntly. He never liked people from work to see him upset. It felt too vulnerable. “If you want to hear my conversations, bug my fucking shoes and leave me alone.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Fury considered it.”

“Very funny,” he said, unwilling to laugh.

“I’m only here in person because I wanted to see Banner,” she admitted.

“I thought he dumped you?” Brock said. “Needed real space.”

“Yeah, well, it turns out I can’t quit him,” she said softly. “So, I keep trying to reconnect.”

“You’ve got a real Jolly Green Giant deal?” Brock said, unable to stand the conversation. He scowled. “We’re not the same. She’s not like you. Darcy has integrity,” he told her.

“I know,” Natasha said. “She’s sent me the names of some people already.”

“Shit,” Brock said, realizing that meant Darcy was serious--she wouldn’t have sent them if she still wanted to treat him.

“She’ll send your file to whoever you want, including you, but she especially recommends a Dr. Wallach,” Natasha said. “A specialist in relationship counseling and something called EFT. She’s worked with field agents in the New York office. Darcy said you might benefit from her field of therapy and I can get her cleared quickly and make you an appointment, if you’d like?”

“I don’t know,” Brock said, rolling his neck. 

“Give it some thought,” Natasha said.

“Wait”--Romanoff had stood and looked at him now--”yeah,” Brock said.

“Yes?” she said, raising her eyebrow a tiny fraction.

“Make the appointment,” Brock said. “I’ll see Wallach.”

* * *

“You’re home early,” Jane said, catching Darcy in the kitchen. She was stirring something with a whisk. “Pudding?” Jane said.

“It’s Godiva from a box,” Darcy said. “I needed something mindlessly easy and soothing while I pretend I’m Nigella Lawson and I live in London and my kitchen is filled with twinkle lights and all I do is make cakes and pasta.”

“Bad workday?” Jane said. Darcy sighed.

“You know I can’t tell you, but yes, I’m eating my feelings,” Darcy said. “Like a good therapist.”

“Is it eating your feelings if you know you’re doing it?” Jane wondered.

“Yes,” Darcy said. She sounded resigned to Jane. “It’s still eating your feelings. Where’s Thor?”

“Running an errand for me,” Jane said. She looked around. “We could put twinkle lights in the kitchen?” Jane offered. She was fairly sure that Darcy had these episodes of sadness whenever she was seriously worried about a client--this time, it was probably Brock, Jane thought. But it wasn’t like she could ask about it.

“That would be nice,” Darcy said, whisking gently.

“I’ll call Thor, get him to pick some up,” Jane said, feeling determined to help Darcy somehow. “Can I help with the pudding?”

“It’s just got to chill for thirty minutes,” Darcy said. “I think I’ll put my pajamas on after I stick it in the fridge.”

“Okay,” Jane said. 

“Maybe we can find something fun on Netflix?” Darcy said.

“Absolutely,” Jane said. “We can do that.”

* * *

“This is normal?” Brock asked, studying the woman across from him. “You’re a couples’ therapist, but you’re just seeing me?”

“Sure,” Wallach said calmly. “I usually work with couples, but EFT techniques have been modified to be used by individuals with PTSD, things like that. Even when I treat couples, sometimes, the other partner is reluctant to participate in therapy.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s not really my situation. I need to get over my ex.” His expression grew wry. “But she’s not reluctant about therapy.”

“Pardon?” Wallach said, looking curious.

“My ex is a therapist now,” he said dryly. “She recommended you.”

“Oh.”

“She’s the reason I know about DBT and all that shit,” he said. “I’ve been trying to work on my issues.” He’d brought his worksheets to therapy.

“How long have you been separated?” she asked.

“Oh, about six fucking years,” Brock said. He rubbed his jaw. “You’ve treated SHIELD agents, so you know about the HYDRA Uprising, yeah?”

“Yes,” she said smoothly.

“We split then,” Brock said. “I broke up with her to get her out of town before Pierce made any moves. We--I just recently saw her again. I’d like to reconcile, but she’s not interested in that.”

“You stayed away for that long?” Wallach asked.

“I wasn’t so pretty until Helen Cho patched me up last year,” Brock said, touching his formerly mangled ear. “Didn’t want her to see that--and I had undercover work to do. Important things for SHIELD. I was needed at work.” He tapped his thigh. “I gave the last five years of my life to SHIELD.” His nostrils flared. 

“And that makes you angry?” she prompted. He’d mentioned resenting his work. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fucking angry--I’m angry and I’m upset. I want that time back. But I’ve been told that I have to accept that’s not possible.”

“It’s not an easy thing, realizing that we’ve missed out on things we care about,” Wallach said. He nodded.

“Tell me about this EFT stuff?” Brock said quietly.

“It’s an attachment based therapy,” she explained. “Emotionally focused therapy is based on the idea that we all need to feel secure and safe in our relationships--and that one of the reasons people fight is because they don’t feel secure. Arguing, giving a partner or family member the silent treatment, those are all rooted in fear of abandonment and feelings of insecurity. Many people get into negative cycles of fighting.” 

“Sounds about right,” Brock said. “So, the answer is not to do that?” His voice was sarcastic.

“Oh, being open and vulnerable? Easiest thing in the world,” Wallach said, matching his tone.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EFT stuff! http://www.childandfamilymentalhealth.com/pdf/Emotion-Focused-Therapy-Individuals.pdf


	8. Is It Safe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

An anxious Brock stood on her porch, willing himself to ring the doorbell. Cars drove by on the street and he rocked back on his heels. He had discussed visiting her with Wallach, explaining his anxieties. Wallach thought it was a good idea for him to work on all his relationships, strengthen them. Brock sighed. She would be angry, he thought, as he pressed the button and heard the familiar peal. “Coming!” a female voice said. He steeled himself for her reaction when she saw it was him. The door behind the storm door opened. The smile fell from her face. “Brock!” she shrieked, hand over her mouth.

“Hi, Ma,” he said. “I got a little medical treatment since the last time I was home.” The last time she'd seen him, he'd still been burned.

“Your--you look the same,” Angela Rumlow said, looking stunned.

“I had a real good doctor, Ma,” he said. “You gonna let me in or we gonna yell at each other on the porch?”

“Shut up,” his mother grumbled, “come and hug me, you wiseass.” He practically lifted his mother off the ground, squeezing her. She smelled like home, he thought. Perfume and hairspray and the faint whiff of whatever she was cooking. He set her down with a smile. 

“I missed you, Ma,” Brock said. She looked at him for a long moment.

“You’re too skinny,” she declared.

* * *

Brock was fixing a loose cabinet door in the kitchen when she asked how long he’d be in New York. “I don’t know,” he said. “SHIELD’s got me here doing therapy. They set me up with Darcy first--you remember my girlfriend, Darcy?”

“Darcy Lewis?” his mother said. “Darcy’s in New York?”

“She lives in Brooklyn. She’s a therapist now, Ma,” Brock said, turning the wrench. “But, uh, that didn’t work, so--”

“You broke that poor girl’s heart,” Angela said. “You know, she sent me flowers when she thought you were dead.”

“Shit,” Brock said grimly. “I did not know that.” He rubbed his face. “She sent flowers?”

“Nice ones,” his mother said. 

“Fuck,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” Angela said. “I almost called her myself to tell her you were just hiding out in Senegal.”

“Ma,” he scolded. “You know how it was back then. I put everybody in danger.” He sighed. “I’m working on it--working on making it up to her. If she’ll let me,” he added. 

“Stay for dinner, tell me about it?” Angela said.

“I can stay for dinner, but I need to go home and do my homework.”

“Homework?” his mother said, expression baffled.

“I got therapy worksheets,” Brock said. “I have to identify my emotions.”

“Identify your emotions how?” Angela said.

“What do I feel too much of, too little of, that kind of thing,” he said. 

“What do you feel too little of?” Angela said in a curious voice.

“I don’t know, what does anyone feel too little of?” he said. Brock paused. He looked over his shoulder. His mother was checking a pot on the stove. He sighed.

“What?” she said. “You sound like an old woman.”

“Happiness, Ma,” he said. “I feel too little happiness. And too much fucking guilt.”

“You should feel a little guilty,” Angela said shrewdly. “Otherwise, you’d be a bad person. Do you have electronic copies of these worksheets?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Actually, I do.”

* * *

Brock filled out the worksheet at his mother’s kitchen table. It asked him a series of questions. They were set in little boxes.

_What do I feel too much of?_

“Fucking loneliness,” Brock muttered, scrawling the second word. He added _anger, missed opportunities, grief,_ and then crossed out the last one. He wasn’t giving up yet.

_What do I feel too little of?_

_Happiness,_ he wrote. _Sense of—_ He wasn’t entirely certain. _Accomplishment,_ he decided.

_What do my emotions get in the way of me doing?_

He stared at the box for a moment, then moved on.

_What do my emotions lead me to do too much of?_

“Drink like a goddamned fish,” Brock said out loud.

“What?” Angela said, walking past the doorway. He muttered that he’d been filling out forms. She peered over his shoulder. “You left one blank,” she said.

“I’m working on it,” he grumbled. He read the next one aloud. “Where in my body do I notice emotions most strongly?”

“Well, that’s a question,” Angela said.

“Throat,” he said. “I can’t swallow when I’m upset.” He sighed. The next question was a killer. “If I was living my life the way I truly wanted to, what would I be doing more of?” Brock read aloud.

“Visiting your mother,” Angela said, patting his hair. He chuckled.

“Absolutely, Ma,” he said.

* * *

“Jane mentioned you were a therapist. How’d you get interested in therapy?” he asked. Darcy smiled at her date. Matt was a scientist Jane had met at a local conference. It was a blind date. She thought he looked a little like Ian, with his blondish hair and lanky build. Darcy could see why Jane set them up. He grinned at her.

“Well, I went through some things and needed therapy,” Darcy said. “And I really enjoyed it, found it fascinating.”

“No zeal like the converted, huh?” he said, chuckling.

“I guess you could say that,” Darcy said slowly. “But actually, I enjoy the process of seeing people work on their lives, find meaning and purpose in things, especially after trauma.”

“It’s not all their mother’s fault?” Matt joked.

“Uhhhh, no,” Darcy said. She tried not to roll her eyes. Freud jokes were way too common. 

“I was kidding,” he said. “It was a joke!”

“Yeah, but was it actually funny?” she said archly.

“Yeah, maybe not.” He grinned. “Oops! Are we going to end up in couples’ therapy?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said, grinning back. “Not that couples’ therapy is a bad thing to do ever,” she began.

“It’s mostly for cheaters and people with real problems, though, right?” Matt said, toying with his glass. Darcy shook her head.

“Not always. There’s a whole school of thought that people struggle in romantic and family relationships because they need to feel like the other person has their back and really sees them. And that your loved one gives affection and attention without keeping score,” she said. “That’s called emotionally focused therapy. It was developed by a woman named Sue Johnson. She thinks that real bonding is crucial for couples’ happiness. It’s an offshoot of attachment research in children.”

“Sure, sure,” he said. “I never really think about stuff like that.”

“I used to not think about stuff, but I realized I was sort of drifting and I decided I wanted to live with more intention and direction,” Darcy said.

“Uh-huh,” he said, eyes tracking something across the room. Darcy realized he was tuning her out to stare at another woman.

* * *

“Hey, I’m back,” Darcy yelled, shedding her coat in the foyer.

“How’d it go?” Jane called.

“Not my worst date ever, but I’ve met another man physically incapable of listening when a woman talks,” Darcy said, rounding the corner. Someone else was sitting in the living room. Darcy paused on the threshold.

“What was the worst one ever?” Natasha Romanoff asked. “When Rumlow threw up tequila after karaoke?”

“Hello,” Darcy said, startled.

“Oh, man,” Jane said. “Sorry about Matt. Rumlow threw up on a date?”

“He took me out after being up for forty eight hours on a mission, remember? He was exhausted.” She looked at Natasha. “Brock told you that story?” Darcy said. Romanoff nodded. 

“Exhausted and dehydrated,” she said, expression curious. “Sounds like a bad date.”

“Um, no,” Darcy said. “That’s not even top five. My worst date was a friend of a friend whole told me his favorite movie was a Korean film where a girl gets kidnapped by a gangster who has fallen in love with her from a distance and she is stashed in a brothel, but—I’m quoting him directly—it was a good thing for the girl because the gangster doesn’t touch her and watching all the brothel sex makes her have a _sexual_ _awakening_ ,” Darcy said, rolling her eyes. “It made a really specific first impression.”

“Which was run,” Jane said dryly.

“Run fast and far,” Darcy said. She expected Romanoff to say something to her about Brock, but the redhead merely laughed and stood up.

“I’ll call about the specs after I talk to Tony,” she said to Jane. “Goodnight, Darcy.”

“Goodnight,” Darcy said back as Jane walked her out. When Jane returned, she smiled at Darcy.

“That was a science thing,” Jane said. Darcy nodded.

“Oh, okay.”

“She didn’t mention Brock before you got here, if you’re worried about patient confidentiality,” Jane added.

“Good to know,” Darcy said. She hadn’t told Jane what happened between them. Which was fine. Professional. Except that Darcy didn’t want to interrogate her own resistance to talking about it.

* * *

“I need a professional opinion,” Darcy said into the telephone. She had called a friend who specialized in treating other therapists.

“About a patient?” Alex said.

“Uh-huh. This one is extremely capable of self-deception, stubborn, and in a weird place with an ex right now,” Darcy said.

“She sounds like fun,” he said. Darcy could practically hear his grin.

“Yeah, I’m the patient,” Darcy said. 

“You don’t say.”

“I think I’m still—I have feelings for this guy I dated before Jane and I left DC,” Darcy said. “I probably mentioned him when I was drunk...sometimes. Brock?”

“The Nazi fuckstick?” Alex said.

“Yeah. Except I just found out he was undercover all that time,” Darcy said.

“Honey, isn’t he dead?” he asked.

“Nope. Still alive, not a Nazi, and,” Darcy sighed, “the person I keep thinking of when I’m on dates with other people.”

“Interesting,” Alex said. His voice was teasing.

“Don’t sarcasm me,” she sassed back. “This is my first genuine encounter with dating regret in years.”

“I know! You’re like a cat, you just showed up on Jane’s doorstep and you don’t need anyone but her and Thor to feed you to function well. It’s slightly annoying,” he said. He paused. “You want to talk to the guy?”

“Well,” Darcy said. “That’s going to be difficult for my ego. SHIELD wanted me to treat him, we tried, he said he still loved me, and then I recommended Wallach to him.”

“Good call, she’s fantastic,” Alex said. “How do you feel right now?”

“I thought I was over him when I didn’t immediately want to jump into bed with him, but it turns out I miss the focused attention more than sex,” Darcy said. She sighed. “He paid attention to me—and then he used my vulnerabilities as ammunition to run me out of DC. I still resent it, but I catch myself wanting to have conversations with him. Or having them in my head.”

“Yeah,” Alex said.

“Should it make a difference to me that he hurt me to keep Jane and I from being killed or kidnapped by Nazis?” Darcy wondered. “I keep thinking about how much I _want_ to forgive him, Alex.”

“Would it benefit you to forgive him?” Alex said.

“Possibly. I made my pros and cons list already,” Darcy said. “I could have a second chance at the best relationship I ever had--for real this time.” She had the worksheet and list in front of her. “He’s funny, he’s affectionate, he cares about the relationship. I really, really loved him.”

“And the cons?” Alex said.

“It used to be that he was a Nazi fuckstick, but now the biggest one is that he’s smart enough to hurt me,” she admitted. 

“And we don’t like that, do we?” Alex asked.

“Nope,” Darcy said. She paused. “That’s my big anxiety. The more I think about it, the more I realize his rejection--even if it was fake--it changed my life. It took me years to not fixate on the awful things he said to me. I have fucking cellulite issues now. And I avoided dating other people. I’m probably a therapist now because he pushed me towards a nervous breakdown. I keep wondering, is it safe? Or would I be better off leaving him in my past?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgiveness Therapy worksheets exist! https://www.therapistaid.com/worksheets/forgiveness-therapy.pdf
> 
> Also, guess who listened to Some Guy tell her that his favorite movie was that Korean one? I feel like I should do a worksheet for that, lol.


	9. Try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

Darcy was reading when the doorbell rang. She put her book down and went to the front door. It was Brock. “Hi,” she said, feeling a mixture of surprise and happiness. He smiled at her. 

“Hey,” he said. He fidgeted slightly. “I, uh--” he began.

“Did you want to come inside?” Darcy offered.

“Yeah,” he said, lighting up a little. She held the door open for him. “Make sure you lock that,” he said, stepping inside carefully. He was rubbing the back of his neck, she noticed.

“Are you worried about my security?” Darcy said wryly. “I have a Thor.” He grinned sheepishly.

“That’s true,” he said. They walked into the living room. Darcy’s nerves jangled. She hadn’t talked to him since that day in Prospect Park, some five weeks ago. She’d been seriously tempted to drop by his place or call, but felt like he might be upset or angry with her. She’d earmarked six weeks as a possible check in moment and crafted a neutral, but friendly email and left it in her drafts folder. 

“How’ve you been?” she asked. He sat in the chair opposite her, expression unreadable.

“Good,” he said slowly. “I’ve been seeing Dr. Wallach.”

“Oh,” Darcy said, “that’s great. I really like her. I’ve been to several of her panel talks. She’s great with PTSD, eating disorders, all kinds of trauma.”

“She likes you, too,” he said, smiling gently. “We, uh, talk about you. And SHIELD. But mostly you.”

“Oh,” Darcy repeated. She hadn’t expected that. Her heart was going like a drum. “Things are going okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m staying in town for awhile.” He leaned back. He sounded good, Darcy thought. Relaxed. “I saw my mother the other day, she doesn’t hate my guts.”

“Your mom never hated you,” Darcy said, then wondered if she’d said it too quickly. She’d never met Angela Rumlow in person, but they’d talked on the phone years ago. His mother was friendly and talkative--and clearly loved her only son.

“I dunno,” he said, scrunching his nose. “I haven’t visited in two years. She screamed when she saw my face. She says hello, by the way. She reminded me that you sent her flowers when you thought I was dead and she couldn’t say anything, because I’m--and I quote--an asshole who lies to people as a job.” Darcy couldn’t help it; she laughed. 

“I’m sure Angela was happy to see you,” Darcy said. “I always liked her.”

“I’ve got better women in my life than I deserve,” Brock said, gaze intense. Darcy didn’t know what to say. “That’s why I’m here--I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Darcy said, trying to mentally prepare herself. “You’re not upset with me?”

“No, no,” he said, expression surprised. “Why would I be mad at you? I’ve been working on mindfulness and identifying my feelings.” Darcy nodded, trying to be encouraging. He rubbed his jaw. She waited. “I read _Hold Me Tight,”_ he said suddenly.

“It’s a good book,” Darcy said. It was the original EFT guide for couples, Sue Johnson’s book. 

“I was thinking about what you said to me that day in the park,” he said. “I took me awhile to realize what you meant, that you couldn’t be my therapist if I kept trying to make it a relationship. You can’t date your therapist.”

“Yeah,” Darcy said. “You really can’t.” He paused and looked out the window, hesitating. Darcy sat and waited.

“But I was, uh, wondering if you could date your ex once she wasn’t your therapist?” Brock said. “And maybe she would go to couples’ therapy with you, so you can apologize for being an asshole who lies and work on your issues?” he added, rubbing the armchair nervously. He flicked his eyes at her, expression ambiguous.

“You really want to?” Darcy asked carefully. “Because there are lots of things in our past. It’s not going to be fun, if we’re really discussing it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.” He looked at her. “And I know those are my fault. One-hundred percent.”

“I can’t say I disagree with that,” she said. “You’re the one who destroyed the relationship, Brock. Even if it was all for a good reason--you _devastated_ me. As your therapist, I owed you professional detachment, but I’m not going to avoid discussing it in session now,” she said, swallowing. He leaned forward and held a hand out to her. 

“Darcy.”

“Yes?” she said, reaching her hand out carefully. Her fingers touched his. He curled his hand gently. His fingers were warm and calloused. 

“I regret that every goddamn day. Do you think you could give me another chance?” he asked softly.

“I can try,” Darcy said gently. “All we can do is try.”

* * *

  
  


“Be angry with me?” Brock said, stroking her thumb. They were sitting opposite Wallach. He’d been holding her hand all morning, trying to convey affection and trust. “Tell me off. I know I deserve it. All of it,” he added, trying not to tense. Wallach wanted them to assess what their problems were.

“Thank you.“ She squeezed his hand back; they’d talked a little before the appointment about whether or not he could touch her. “I wasn’t angry. I was hurt. So hurt. I cried for weeks,” Darcy said quietly. “I would just fall apart. The poor people in the lab in Norway used to carry around tissues.” She grinned through her tears and said _Kleenex_ in a Norwegian accent. “Every time they saw me, they’d offer me one.” She sniffled and rubbed her nose; Darcy felt Brock stroke her hand. “I couldn’t sleep. I gained thirty pounds, which made me hate my _fat, lumpy ass_ even more,” she said, voice cracking. “Jane finally begged me to go to therapy, because she was worried I was suicidal. So, you know, everything that’s different about me now--everything I did to pull myself together happened after our breakup, those were my coping mechanisms,” Darcy said. He looked stricken. “Because I loved you and trusted you and I feel like you used that trust to wound me, even if it was to save my life,” she added, glancing at Brock. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Brock said. He looked as if he wanted to throw up. “If I could go back and change things--”

“I know,” Darcy said. “That’s the worst part--I _know.”_ She looked at the therapist. “It took me months of work before I could stop hearing those criticisms in my head--I know he can’t change that, but it’s difficult to keep that stuff out of my head. And now we’re seeing each other again and there’s this tiny nagging voice in my head, wondering if that’s how he really feels.”

“No,” Brock said, totally focused on her. He’d turned his whole body to face hers and edged closer to Darcy. “Absolutely-fucking-not, baby.” He was sort of hovering, holding her hand. Darcy nodded gently, blinking.

“Okay,” she said, trying to break the tension. “Somebody offer me a Kleenex.” Dr. Wallach held out the box on her desk and Brock pried out one tissue. To Darcy’s surprise, he dabbed at her eyes gently. “Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I love you so much,” he said. She noticed there was a tremor in his hand. He looked at Wallach. “How do I help her?” he asked. “I feel so fucking helpless and guilty.”

“What would you tell a patient in this situation, Darcy?” Wallach said. Darcy pulled her eyes away from Brock’s face. His gaze was intense. With the way he was staying close to her and looking at her so closely, it was sometimes difficult to talk. Darcy took a deep breath.

“I would suggest doing a run through of exercises that help you challenge a negative thought spiral,” Darcy said. She looked at Brock and held his hand in hers, cupping his hand between her palms. “Ask myself ‘is there evidence for this thought?’” she explained. “Or is there evidence contrary to this thought?” She took a deep breath. “The evidence for my fears is that I do have fucking cellulite,” she said. Brock winced. “The contrary evidence would be that you’re here, telling me that you love me and want to be here.”

“I do, I want to be here, baby,” he said, squeezing her hand. 

“And I _did_ make something of myself, by the way,” she added, sniffling. “I’m all kinds of things now that wasn’t before. I have a career and a life that I like a lot.” She looked up at Brock when he cupped her face.

“Sweetheart, you were always important. Look at all the work you did with Jane. You saved the fucking world. Twice! You were always smart and accomplished and funny and, uh, charming,” Brock said. 

“Charming?” Darcy said skeptically.

“Yes,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. 

“Do you hear her doubting her own self-worth over here?” he told the therapist wryly. His expression struck Darcy as funny. She wanted to be closer to him, she realized, turning her body and leaning forward. He smiled slowly as Darcy leaned forward to rest her forehead against his. 

“Charming,” Darcy muttered, starting to giggle. “Since when do you say charming?”

“I’m working on my vocabulary,” he said, grinning. “I read. Tell her that I do my homework.” 

“Speaking of homework, I want to try your first EFT enactment and dig more deeply into what you’ve just discussed,” Wallach said. “How did you feel about sharng those details with Brock, Darcy? When you said them, how did you feel?”

“It was nerve-wracking,” she admitted slowly, “but I’ve been holding back on saying it.” Brock nodded and looked towards the therapist.

“And how did hearing her say that make you feel?” Wallach asked.

“Fucking awful,” he said, swallowing. “But also relieved. I’ve been feeling like there had to be something she wanted to say to me--that it was wrong for her to hold back. I wanted to hear it,” he added. “It felt like she was pretending to be okay when she should have some reaction.”

They left their first session together with homework to do. “You, uh, feel like some food? I know a place. It’s this way,” Brock said quietly, gesturing with his thumb. Darcy looked at him. They were standing on the sidewalk---if she said no, they’d go in different directions.

“Yeah, I could eat,” she said softly. “Sure.” He reached for her hand. She smiled and reached towards him. Their fingers were gently entwined. They walked together. Darcy was hyper-aware of the fragility of the moment: that they were both alive, both willing to try, both reaching for each other. They stopped at a crosswalk.

“It’s just a few blocks,” he said. “It looks like rain.” It started to drizzle as they waited for the signal. “Shit,” Brock said. Darcy started to laugh. “What?” he said, tucking her under his arm. He was trying to cover her with his jacket. “Your nice outfit’s gonna be ruined.”

“I can always make another one,” Darcy said. She’d worn a red faux wrap dress that she thought was especially flattering.

“Make one?” he said.

“I sew now,” she said, grinning and squinting in the rain.

“You’re kidding,” Brock said. “You made that?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, nodding. “I’m full of hidden talents.”

* * *

He was sitting opposite her in the restaurant when Brock sighed. “You know I would change it if I could,” he said again. His expression was serious. He rubbed his face.

“But you can’t,” Darcy said gently, reaching out to touch him when he put his hand on the table.

“But I can’t,” he repeated, studying her hand. His voice was sad. He flicked his gaze up to hers tentatively. There was something heartbreaking in his expression. Darcy nodded, leaning forward.

“You can’t, so you have to accept that,” she told him gently. "We both do. Either we accept it and move forward or--" She paused. Darcy didn’t want to say that it was acceptance or the end. He read it in her face.

"So we have to be very careful," Brock said, echoing her words during one of their sessions. She nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darcy's dress for the final scene: https://www.augustinaleathers.com/chiara-boni-la-petite-robe-passion-florien-dress/


	10. Congruence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“You okay?” Darcy whispered to Brock. He was sitting next to her at a dinner for Jane. They were in the private room of a very nice restaurant. He’d agreed to be her date, but she’d noticed that he seemed a little tense. It was a small thing, but she could see it in his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his jaw.

“You’re sure? It’s okay if you’re not--” she began. If he was stressed, he could always go home, she thought. She didn’t want him to feel stuck or anxious. He was the only thing between her and utter boredom; it was why she’d asked him to come, but she was fully capable of undertaking the rest of the dinner by herself.

“You look beautiful,” he said in a low voice. “It’s...distracting.” For a moment, he grinned and Darcy saw something young and familiar in his face. That smirk was typical of the guy she’d fallen for, all those years ago. The ridiculously charming, sarcastic flirt who left her feeling dizzy with lust.

“Oh,” Darcy said knowingly. “I see.” She pretended to be less surprised than she was. 

“I’m trying to be good here,” he said, raking his eyes over her. “You’re making my job more difficult with that dress.” She was wearing a raspberry-colored faux wrap dress. It was her brightest, sexiest creation. She might’ve chosen it on purpose, just to see his face. They weren’t sleeping together yet.

“Okay,” Darcy said. “Noted. Don’t wear this dress.”

“That is not what I said,” he whispered, leaning closer to her. “Not at all.” 

“Mmm-hmm,” Darcy said, trying not to grin. She pretended to survey the table. Jane was talking to an eminent female scientist about her latest theories; Thor was cheerfully discussing Asgardian history with the woman’s wife. The rest of the guests were paying rapt attention to Jane and Thor. Darcy turned her head to Brock. “I think we can slip out without being noticed,” she said.

“What?” Brock said, slightly louder than before. 

“Run away with me, Brock Rumlow,” she said quietly. His eyes lit up.

* * *

“I can’t believe we’re eating fucking ice cream,” Brock said, as they watched the carousel revolve at Brooklyn Bridge Park. 

“Why?” Darcy said, grinning. She’d talked him into coming back to Brooklyn with her for ice cream and walking over to see the carousel. She loved Jane’s Carousel. 

“I dunno,” he said. A kid on the carousel shrieked. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Doesn’t seem real.” He shook his head. “My whole fucking life doesn’t seem real sometimes.”

“I could see that,” Darcy said. “You’ve been through, well, events.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he said wryly. He looked at her. “God, I’m--sweetheart,” he said, voice cracking.

“What’s wrong?” Darcy asked.

“I don’t want to fuck it up,” he said. “What do I do?” He looked at her with an almost frightened expression.

“Eat your ice cream,” Darcy said gently. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight.” She reached over and held his hand, squeezing his fingers. He looked from her hand to Darcy’s face.

“I love you so fucking much,” he said in a raw voice.

“I know,” she said. That got a barking laugh. She smiled at him. “I love you, too,” Darcy said. They stood for a moment. “You could always come home with me tonight?” she offered.

“Really?” he said, brightening. Then he frowned. “You’re sure?” Brock asked.

“Yeah,” Darcy said. She smiled at him. “After you finish that ice cream and get on the carousel with me.” Brock snorted, but she thought he smiled more. She’d eaten her cone when he looked at her. 

“You ready?” Brock asked.

“Yes,” Darcy said. He helped her on carefully--she was wearing heels--and snapped photos of both of them. 

“That’s a good one,” Brock said, studying an image of himself kissing her cheek as the carousel rotated.

“It is,” Darcy said. “That’s the best one.”

* * *

“How does this thing come off?” Brock whispered in a low voice, as they stood in the foyer of the brownstone. They’d started kissing as they walked back from the park. He was taking his jacket off and trying to kiss her at the same time. She grinned when she turned to look at him. His neck was all flushed.

“A zipper, come upstairs and I’ll show you,” Darcy said pertly. Then she left him standing there. There was a pause and then she heard the tread of his boots. He caught her in the doorway of her bedroom, pulling her against his chest.

“Show me the damn zipper,” Brock said, before he kissed her. 

“Here, here,” she whispered, gesturing to the hidden zipper along her hip. He stripped her dress off gently, then carried her to the bed. “Lemme get this,” Darcy said, unbuttoning his pants. They were both smiling at each other. 

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing. His expression changed.

“What is it?” Darcy asked.

“This time, I’m going to be careful, all right? As careful as I can fucking be,” he said. She realized his hands were shaking slightly.

“I trust you,” Darcy said, reaching up to cup his face. He stared at her. “You’re trying,” she added. “I know you are.” A wave of emotions washed over his face. “I know,” Darcy repeated. Brock leaned forward and kissed her intensely. 

He was achingly careful as he trailed his mouth over her body. He talked to her--he’d never talked much during sex before, not like this. “I’ve always loved this part of you,” he said earnestly, nuzzling at the spot where her breast creased over her ribs. She looked at him, feeling dazed. “So soft,” he murmured.

“You like how soft I am?” Darcy said, tilting her chin to look at him. She could see the way the muscles around his neck and shoulders curved in the dim light from the hallway. He looked different from her memories. More intense. Physically stronger. If she didn’t know him, she might be frightened of that intensity. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with emotion. He kissed a spot on her hip with something like reverence. “You’re fucking perfect,” Brock said.

“Now I know you’re sweet talking me,” Darcy began as his mouth moved down over her belly button. She shivered when she felt his tongue. “Oh God, Brock,” she moaned, slumping back onto the pillow. She’d thought she wanted to feel everything when they were together again, but she was startled by the wave of emotions that hit her as he touched and kissed her. She was trembling and crying a little when he kissed back up body and saw the tears on her face.

“Sweetheart,” he said, looking worried.

“I’m okay, I’m okay. It’s just, you might be too good in bed now,” Darcy told him, sniffling a little. He kissed her cheeks and eyelids gently, smiling, then shifted her onto her side. 

“Too good, huh?” Brock said. He touched her face, fingers cupping her cheek.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said. She ducked her face against his shoulder, then kissed one of the faint shaving cuts she found along his jawline. 

“You sure?” he said. She nodded. They’d never made love so slowly or gently before.

* * *

Darcy emerged from her office into the main part of the house after an appointment. She could hear a weird knocking noise coming from upstairs. “What’s that?” she called out. 

“A surprise,” Brock called back. “Get up here.” She climbed the stairs smiling to herself. He’d been staying over a lot, as they made adjustments--to his job, their relationship, therapy appointments, the tentative friendship he was building with Thor and Jane. They were having dinner with his mother tonight.

“What are you up to?” Darcy said, then felt her grin go wide.

“What do you think?” Brock asked. He’d framed and hung the photo of them on the carousel in her bedroom. “Jane helped me pick out a frame,” he added. The gold frame looked like the carousel's trim.

“I love it,” Darcy said.

“You’re okay with it here? Cause I could put it someplace else?” he offered.

“Nope, this is perfect,” Darcy said. 

“Perfect,” he echoed dubiously. “You sure?” He looked at her, then back at the photo. “I think the fucker’s crooked,” Brock said. She caught his hand as he moved to change it.

“Leave it like that,” she told him. “I don’t care if it’s not level.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” he said. He tilted his head at her quizzically.

“No,” Darcy said, shaking her head. “That makes it more”--she hesitated-- “more special, if there’s something personal that reminds me of you.” 

“Yeah?” Brock said.

“That you did it with these hands,” she said, holding his hand against her chest for a second. He pulled her against him with his other arm. 

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah.” He kissed her forehead.

  
  


-The End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Here's Carl Rogers on congruence, which is a psychology term for living in alignment with your values and striving towards your ideal self: https://www.simplypsychology.org/carl-rogers.html


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